The last downsize.

[tectak]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags,
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought,
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexacious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, yet sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed? Them or me. It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws….if only the cross-heads had not come along
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my last dog.

Tectak
June 2012

[Aish]

Hi, Tek.

Nice, easy piece of prose. It's uncomfortable. Truthfully, the aging process scares me a little. Right now (and hopefully for a long time yet to come) I am able to enjoy what ever hobby I take up. I do think about the possibility that may not always be the case. The futility of life and experience piss me off. Your descriptions of a well loved shop are melancholic, and elicited an emotional response from me, so kudos. Right at this moment I am sorely missing my grandfather, remembering how difficult it was to "clean out" his shop. Some of his tools are still present, but the smell of fresh sawdust is gone, and sometimes the lack of that smell is harder on me than the passing anniversary of his birthday.
I don't really have any crit for you.

[billy]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags, where is there? i also stumbled with the wording though i can't point out why
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms in dessicated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought, i like the images of the last 4 lines. they're all work-shed or greenhouse and manly and aged
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexacious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, yet sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed? Them or me. It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws….if only the cross-heads had not come along poignant, nostalgic and very sad.
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my old dog.

Tectak
June 2012

apart for that 1st line that gave me a little trouble, i found the write to beautifully done, prose poetry at it's finest. i loved the narrative love and pride shown through a keen edged chisel. the questioning of progress as beneficial through a cross head screw, the feeling of no longer being relevant. some of the images are as keen as the chisel's edge. it's a poem i could fall in love with. sorry if i couldn't be more constructive via the feedback process, i'm not sure as i can see where it needs to be edited (apart from that 1st line.)

thanks for the read.

[tectak]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags, where is there? i also stumbled with the wording though i can't point out why
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms in dessicated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought, i like the images of the last 4 lines. they're all work-shed or greenhouse and manly and aged
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexacious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, yet sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed? Them or me. It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws….if only the cross-heads had not come along poignant, nostalgic and very sad.
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my old dog.

Tectak
June 2012

apart for that 1st line that gave me a little trouble, i found the write to beautifully done, prose poetry at it's finest. i loved the narrative love and pride shown through a keen edged chisel. the questioning of progress as beneficial through a cross head screw, the feeling of no longer being relevant. some of the images are as keen as the chisel's edge. it's a poem i could fall in love with. sorry if i couldn't be more constructive via the feedback process, i'm not sure as i can see where it needs to be edited (apart from that 1st line.)

thanks for the read.

Hi billy.
You have no idea how long I thrashed myself over that first line. It was ONLY that line which stopped me putting this piece up last year. Trouble is, changing the words without too drastically changing the meaning brings in duplication and redundancy.
With prose like this, technicalities should not be overworked because that would become out of style with the subject matter....it is a problem for me because I have made a real effort to concentrate on first person pieces on this site.....I never felt comfortable with previous efforts of mine, and this piece demonstrates why. "Easy" prose is very difficult, moreso when you put yourself into the frame. I am rambling. Suggestions welcome including mercy killing.
Best,
Tectak

---

Hi, Tek.

Nice, easy piece of prose. It's uncomfortable. Truthfully, the aging process scares me a little. Right now (and hopefully for a long time yet to come) I am able to enjoy what ever hobby I take up. I do think about the possibility that may not always be the case. The futility of life and experience piss me off. Your descriptions of a well loved shop are melancholic, and elicited an emotional response from me, so kudos. Right at this moment I am sorely missing my grandfather, remembering how difficult it was to "clean out" his shop. Some of his tools are still present, but the smell of fresh sawdust is gone, and sometimes the lack of that smell is harder on me than the passing anniversary of his birthday.
I don't really have any crit for you.

Many thanks for the comments, aish. Yes, it is a man thing.....assuming that across the pond a "shop" is a workshop!
This piece could have gone on and on into imminent demise but though nostalgic I hope it is not depressing. Cutting dahlia stems each autumn and turning bits of wood into other bits of wood was never going to be a long term vocation but rjght now I am beginning to feel the wind that blows all things back.
Introspection is for others. Over many years I have read huge chunks of maudling prose, which latterly I have developed a healthy detestation for.........because such work is becoming a little too relevant! I hope never to write such depressing stuff.
Best,
Tectak

[billy]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags

for me it's the extended sentence i think that feels a bit much.

my suggestion would be to take flags out and redo any grammar changes thats required.

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer dahlias.

the opening there still feels off but i have no idea how to deal with it.

[tectak]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags

for me it's the extended sentence i think that feels a bit much.

my suggestion would be to take flags out and redo any grammar changes thats required.

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer dahlias.

the opening there still feels off but i have no idea how to deal with it.

Flag poles, billy....flag poles! Sorry about that. I STILL know what you mean!
Best,
Tectak

[billy]

i just had a moment of deja vu i think

[tectak]

i just had a moment of deja vu i think

Yes....often the way with deja vu....you think you've had the same deja vu before.

[penguin]

I like this but I think if you got rid of some of the asides and just let the story tell itself you'd have a better poem, one that flowed more easily.I mean the things like "Some died, of course" and "Me too." You could do summat like this with the opening verse

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags,
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring.
I left the knife and grubby duster, upon the slatted bench.
An ashtray, too, from long ago topped up with wooden chips;
I can just recall the last vexacious turning on my lathe.
A source of pride, a single table leg; no more again.

I think you do a good enough job of likening yourself to the various tools etc. that you don't need to spell things out so.

[tectak]

I like this but I think if you got rid of some of the asides and just let the story tell itself you'd have a better poem, one that flowed more easily.I mean the things like "Some died, of course" and "Me too." You could do summat like this with the opening verse

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags,
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring.
I left the knife and grubby duster, upon the slatted bench.
An ashtray, too, from long ago topped up with wooden chips;
I can just recall the last vexacious turning on my lathe.
A source of pride, a single table leg; no more again.

I think you do a good enough job of likening yourself to the various tools etc. that you don't need to spell things out so.

Hi penguin,
There is a lot of sense in what you say. The problem I have, is that this one had set in the pan. I wrote the original a while back (2007) and modified it regularly. In truth, the asides were added for this posting. Why? You might ask. Well, it is BECAUSE circumspectively I wanted advertise that I felt the same now as when I wrote
it so I added some bits of contemporaneous me.........and it obviously showed
Nonetheless, I will consider the omission of the stick-ons in the light of further critting. Things are in the balance.Oh,and I changed the "old dog" to the more dual-meaning "last dog"
Best,
Tectak

[heslopian]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags, What is the function of "there" in this sentence? I think it might make more sense if you put a comma after it, but it also makes the first two lines feel like an unfinished conjunction. That could be rectified by changing the semi-colon after "sand" to a comma.
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms corns in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. Very good sentence. I like the added detail that the bence was slatted. Small things like that add density. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought,
now topped up with wood chips Again, great little detail about the wood chips. ; I can just recall the last vexacious turning
on my squeaking lathe. The adjectives in this latter conjunction richen the broth too. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again. "Never again" feels nicely melancholy.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, yet sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. Is "and yet" needed? I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could. Overall, an excellent verse. Strongly descriptive, with subtle undertones.

What has changed? Them or me. A question mark should really go here. It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws…. This ellipsis feels sloppy. Maybe you could just put three dots and a space? if only the cross-heads had not come along
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time. This sentence feels like it's telling what the previous sentence shows. I think it could easily be removed.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my last dog. I don't think you need this last couple of sentences. Again, they feel like they're telling what the previous sentence shows. "This edifice before me is my life", in my opinion, would be a much stronger close.

Tectak
June 2012

Critique is JMHO. On the whole this is a really good poem. I like how it channels so much raw emotion through such simple images and ideas. Thanks for the read.

[tectak]

Hi, Tek.

Nice, easy piece of prose. It's uncomfortable. Truthfully, the aging process scares me a little. Right now (and hopefully for a long time yet to come) I am able to enjoy what ever hobby I take up. I do think about the possibility that may not always be the case. The futility of life and experience piss me off. Your descriptions of a well loved shop are melancholic, and elicited an emotional response from me, so kudos. Right at this moment I am sorely missing my grandfather, remembering how difficult it was to "clean out" his shop. Some of his tools are still present, but the smell of fresh sawdust is gone, and sometimes the lack of that smell is harder on me than the passing anniversary of his birthday.
I don't really have any crit for you.

Thanks aish,
No views is good News! I'll try something more debatable next time.
Best,
Tectak

---

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags, What is the function of "there" in this sentence? I think it might make more sense if you put a comma after it, but it also makes the first two lines feel like an unfinished conjunction. That could be rectified by changing the semi-colon after "sand" to a comma.
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms corns in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. Very good sentence. I like the added detail that the bence was slatted. Small things like that add density. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought,
now topped up with wood chips Again, great little detail about the wood chips. ; I can just recall the last vexacious turning
on my squeaking lathe. The adjectives in this latter conjunction richen the broth too. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again. "Never again" feels nicely melancholy.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, yet sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. Is "and yet" needed? I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could. Overall, an excellent verse. Strongly descriptive, with subtle undertones.

What has changed? Them or me. A question mark should really go here. It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws…. This ellipsis feels sloppy. Maybe you could just put three dots and a space? if only the cross-heads had not come along
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time. This sentence feels like it's telling what the previous sentence shows. I think it could easily be removed.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my last dog. I don't think you need this last couple of sentences. Again, they feel like they're telling what the previous sentence shows. "This edifice before me is my life", in my opinion, would be a much stronger close.

Tectak
June 2012

Critique is JMHO. On the whole this is a really good poem. I like how it channels so much raw emotion through such simple images and ideas. Thanks for the read.

Thanks for an excellent crit! I put up edit 1 with some of your suggestions incorporated. We were both wrong about corms.........it should be tubers!
My ellipsis problem is that I don't mean three dots to be an ellipsisFrankly, I don't know how to use an ellipsis...to me it is just a pause for thought! Ok. I have paused. I have thought. It has gone.
Best,
Tectak